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“You’re a loony, ain’t you?”
Chuckling, Will dropped the earth and straightened again. “Possibly, but not where dirt is concerned. I want you to have an idea of what’s important about Winnover Hall. You don’t need to be an expert, but other landowners know when one of their own is full of shite just by some of the words he uses.”
The boy narrowed his eyes. “You said shite.”
“There are no ladies present. That was the rule, if you’ll recall.”
Will watched as George processed that, his face mirroring his thoughts in a way that was somewhat reassuring—the lad hadn’t become a master of prevarication yet, anyway. If he’d remained at the orphanage, or if he and Rose ended up at another one, it would only be a matter of time. The boy was far more concerned with caring for his sister and keeping the two of them fed than he was with any pesky laws that got between him and his needs.
After he lost his boyish round cheeks and bright eyes, no one would be calling him clever or inventive. They would simply call him a criminal, and he would end up in one of three places—prison, Australia, or the gallows. Could a few reading lessons alter that?
“Are we going to stand here and look at dirt—soil—now?” George asked. “Because I’d rather go fishing, if it’s all the same to you.”
God’s sake, maybe Emmeline had a point, after all. Learning anything that could give the children a better future far outweighed “fun,” especially when fishing and fencing did nothing to keep them out of trouble. Even his commentary on soil versus dirt was more useful than the silly things he preferred to do with them, especially since he would much rather the boy become a farmer than a highwayman.
“Are you having an apoplexy? Mr. P?” The boy muttered what sounded like a curse under his breath. “Papa?”
Will shook himself. “No. Not an apoplexy. A thought. If you had any life you wanted, George, where would you be in ten years, say? What would you be doing?”
The boy frowned, kicking a rock as they headed off toward the pond again. “What do you care, as long as Rose and me are off your hands?”
“I’m interested. What’s your dream for yourself?”
George blew out his breath. “She said you’d do this.”
“Who said I’d do what?”
“Mrs. P. Whatever we’re supposed to call her. She said you’re good at getting people to like you, but charm don’t work for everything. So, I reckon that now you’re worried you’ve been too nice and Rosie and me won’t be ready for that party. Are you going to be mean now?”
Out of the mouths of babes. “I have no reason to be mean,” he said, his jaw clenched. Damn Emmeline. She’d stated her opinion of his “frivolous” ideas, and he’d told her his reasoning. To pass her thoughts on to the children was highly inappropriate. And not at all helpful.
“Good. Because I like fishing.”
“So do I,” Will said absently. First Emmeline accused him of having no sense of humor, and now she thought him too frivolous. It would be helpful if she made up her damned mind about his faults.
She was the one with no sense of humor, anyway. If it had been up to her, George would be in starched neckcloths and Rose in a ball gown at all times, standing at attention and bowing and curtsying on command, with no concessions to their wants and needs at all.
After they’d married, and after months of nocturnal… conjoining while she showed no sign of ease in his presence, he’d wondered if she didn’t want to have a child with him. If that was somehow the reason she’d never become pregnant. Of course, he’d been a fumbling idiot, as much a virgin as she’d been, but her ongoing reaction to intimacy with him had made it clear that this marriage was a business and social partnership—and nothing more. He’d jumped into marriage with his heart, and she’d stepped into it armed with a social calendar.
Eight years together hadn’t changed that. And now even this very uncharacteristic insanity had done nothing to alter their supremely frustrating status quo.
“Hey, I found earthworms in your damp soil,” George called from close by the pond. “It is perfect.”
Yes, at least the dirt knew what it was doing.
Rose tried to pretend that embroidery was like fencing only with a very small rapier, but it didn’t work. She still hated it. If the needle had been a rapier, the handkerchief she was trying to stitch a rose into would have been very, very dead by now.
“Be patient, Rose,” Mrs. P said from beside her on the sofa. “Big stitches can be a delightful effect, but smaller stitches show more artistry.”
“I’d rather have sword artistry,” Rose commented, beginning to wish her name had been a simpler kind of flower.
“Yes, but this will be more useful.”
It wouldn’t be, because Georgie had said once the duke’s party was over, they would be leaving, and James said it wouldn’t even be that long. She didn’t want to go with James, but at least out in the world they could do what they wanted, and people would give her coins when she danced. That was her favorite—that, and going into the sweet shop afterward.
At least the dancing lessons she was getting here would earn her more coins, because she was becoming very good at country dances and quadrilles and maybe even waltzes, though they’d barely touched on that one. The only problem with all those dances, though, was that she needed a partner. James was too tall, and too old, and he liked to be behind the crowds, picking their pockets, anyway. And the way George frowned when the Pershings made him practice, no one would throw money at him. Vegetables, maybe.
“What are you grinning about?” the missus asked, a pretty smile touching her face.